There came a high wind not far from the calm belt as The Fourth Horseman came into view of an island that was still perhaps two hours off. The crew of The Fourth Horseman buzzed around angrily, as though insects preparing for a feast. This wasn't so far from the truth. Gypsies, many considered them less than insects. To the captain of the Forth though, they were invaluable and by far a better help than any "respectable" crew abroad the four seas. They were crafty, sneaky, knew where to go for information, knew how to get said information, and could disappear into a crowd like no other. Why would a pirate ship as famous as the Fourth Horseman need anything less than these fine dark skinned gentlemen? They were the major organs of this ship - the liver, the kidneys, the arteries. The heart and soul of the ship, however, was stood at the mast gazing out on yon island. Beside him, a bit behind and to the left, was his first mate and behind him were two more extraordinary members of the crew. Ragnarok the Destroyer looked out over the water towards the still yet small spot of green on the horizon and pondered in silence if this was really it - if this was the redemption that he had long set out for that was now coming to a close. Years gone and years back he had swore to kill the man who had accompanied Shipwreck's murderer, now, he had his chance. He stood with sword in hand, wielded like a cane, eyes set on the target and red coat blowing in the breeze.

Clopis stood, hip jutted out to the side slightly, left hand places lazily on this perch, watching his captain think. As the high wind moaned over the entire ship, the bright sky blue caprice shirt fluttered as though to try and join the sky for which it was colored. The look on his face was almost stoic, uncharacteristic to someone as flamboyant as the gypsy lieutenant was. He was worried, and with good reason. Anyone on the Fourth, or rather, anyone who came into any sort of remote contact with him, could tell you that Ragnarok of the Thirteen Swords was an unpredictable man. So while he chose to ally himself with such a dedicated destroyer, he was wary of his decisions and how it would affect the entire crew where his captain was not. This undertaking was risky on more levels than one, yet the chance to end close to fifteen years worth of hardship was a tempting enough prize for him to risk it. Clopis merely wondered whether or not it would be worth it in the end. Taking in a breath of the sea, the flamboyant one spoke.

"So that's the mark captain?" he asked tentatively. "That island is where this... Sir Futtleschuckle is supposed to be held up?" Ragnarok nodded while replying, "According to our information." Carmen, standing to Ragnarok's right just a few steps behind put in, "So what, we just run in, bag the guy, and then go? There's no other pay of than self satisfaction?" Clopis turned and looked at her, his brow furrowed and a small frown on his face. Sometimes, the girl could be so blunt. The giant of a man, Goliath, looked down on Carmen wordlessly. He might have been a brute, but he had some brains in his head - Clopis could see this plainly enough. Smiling snakelike, Clopis interjected, "Honey, Captain Ragnarok doesn't need any other reason than self satisfaction." Turning back to the captain, he finished: "Don't you big boy?"

He gave no answer, just looked out towards the island. Clopis tutted and spun on the spot, walking away to attend to other matters. Carmen watched him leave, not being able to help how much she thought of him a show-off. Even she, a self admitted slut didn't strut her hips about that much. While she was thinking this, Goliath asked in his deep resonating voice, "Are you wanting us to come ashore?" Ragnarok shook his head, saying calmly, "He's mine to kill. I'll take Clopis and the Gypsies on land, you two are to stay here and look after the Fourth while I'm away. I'm putting you in charge until I return, Goliath." His statement put, Ragnarok turned away from the horizon and walked past the two towards his quarters to make certain he was ready. Carmen, however, wasn't satisfied. Turning sharply on the spot, her white hair flashing brilliant in the sunlight, she called after him, "Why are you taking the faerie with you and not a real woman?" Goliath groaned and turned to follow them, in case he needed to restrain Carmen in any way.

The captain of the Fourth answered promptly, "You're on your period, I don't have time to deal with blood in the sand." Caught off guard by the remark, Carmen stopped her forward march for a moment with a look of confusion on her face. Closing her eyes and shaking her head, she continued and countered, "I'm not on you twit!" Sighing, Ragnarok stopped his forward march and turned on the spot towards her, sword at his side, blade pointed behind his back, "Then why are you being such an annoying bitch? I've got a man to kill, you've got a ship to watch while I'm out. Be a good little girl and do as you're told." Flabbergasted, Carmen could do nothing but grit her teeth and clench her fists as her captain headed towards his room through the crowd of gypsies. She had half a mind to paralyze him until they made land but knew better of it. For a person to be effectively paralyzed, they needed to have full dependence on their nerves. Dead mean don't need nerves though. Gasping out of exasperation, she turned and made her own way about the ship, leaving Goliath to watch her go and stand among the crowds of hard working labor hands. Ragnarok the Destroyer, meanwhile, stood in his cabin of swords and wondered just which he should bring to end the life of the man who had helped in the life of Shipwreck. Shipwreck's blade was a no-brainer, that went without question... but which others? He had gotten quite a few over the years. Which ones would be fitting to end this man's life? Now that he thought of it, he didn't really know anything about the man he was hunting... He had no idea what would be fitting to end his life.

After a few moment's consideration, Ragnarok smiled a wide, toothy grin. "Fuck it!" He proclaimed, "Take them all!" Throwing his arms out to the side, he walked over to his cushy bed and fell face first into it, knowing full well that he wouldn't need anything really special aside from Shipwreck's sword for this hunt. The island wasn't far off... they'll be there soon.

The ship came to a slow halt as it drew into the harbour; overhead, the sun shone brightly, signalling a pleasant day where the few before had been nothing short of horrific for those aboard. The ship itself looked a little battered, having braved its harshest set of waves since it came under Morrigan Rassallion's command. The once-fresh cyan and black paint that covered the sides had been chipped away roughly in several places, though the worst of the visible wear came at sea-level where the ship had been forced against rocks and into shallower waters, and here and there, there were no paint or wood at all, showing straight through to the iron supports that lined it. Atop the deck, a solitary figure tied the one remaining sail rope into a knot, securing the line and ensuring the bruised ship remained steady. Glancing to the waters below as he disembarked, he couldn't help but raise a neatly plucked eyebrow, as though he had long forgotten the pleasant sights of a calm and gentle sea. The small crew aboard the ship had long since run out of supplies, for they had spent the month prior upon an almost uninhabitable island, where they had been forced to dock to avoid further damage to their vessel, rationing their supplies until the storm had settled.

The figure's hair, once free-flowing and stunningly golden, now showed signs that the man who wore it had not had the luxury of a hot bath for quite some time, yet somehow, he had managed to retain a surprising amount of its elegance by tying it into a neat bun which contradicted the off-colour it displayed. Not only had the showering facilities of the ship been damaged beyond any immediate repair during the storm they had all battled through, but the on-board launderette had also suffered damage, meaning the three men aboard hadn't been able to keep their garments fresh. Not that it mattered to most pirates... but Yonyon, First Mate of the Alpha Morina was not most pirates, and the sheer possibility of going another week without fresh underwear was simply too much for the poor Okama, who had at once insisted that they dock at the next island they came across, no matter how rough or dangerous said location happened to be.

His bright, ocean-blue eyes, though beautiful, betrayed his weariness perhaps even more than the dishevelled state of his clothes. His skirt trailed behind him limply, blood caked into the cutting edge that had been hidden in amongst the lowermost seams, yet this was not the Okama's main source of distress. Beyond the state of his clothes and the grimy colour of his usually pristine hair, he had broken most of his nails, and long since run out of nail polish and eye liner. Yonyon preferred dark, vivid colours, for they brought out the beauty of his irises; today, as he stepped onto the dirty, dry embankment of the dock he had all but rushed into settling the ship into, his eyes were framed elegantly in a light baby-blue. Not his usual choice, not by far, but elegant and perfected none the less.

The whiteness of his thigh-high boots were marred by numerous scratches, and the colour had lost its purity long ago as the blades affixed to their heels had been used in combat multiple times already, despite them being brand new at the start of their Captain's misadventures. Now, they seemed to absorb light rather than reflect the sun, the rusty, crimson-brown of the long-since-fresh blood destroying any pretence of class the Okama had all those weeks ago. As he took another step, he began to tap his feet, impatience coming to a head as the promise of a long, relaxing, pampered preening session came ever closer. And yet... For all his impatience, he moved no further than a few simple footsteps away from the Alpha Morina, as though terrified of leaving the rickety not-quite-safety of his Captain's ship. It wasn't far from the truth; Yonyon had led a life that couldn't be accurately described as sheltered, but it was a far cry from exploring foreign islands where foes were likely lingering around every dusty corner. No, the Okama thought to himself, taking a step back towards his ship. Bath-time could wait... or so apparently his Captain thought.

Taking a deep breath, he removed a small powder mirror from his pocket and quickly checked his reflection over, making sure his make up were as pristine as possible, even if the rest of him was as far from it as the Okama had ever allowed himself to be. He felt himself calming as he traced the extended lines of his eyelashes, brought out to their fullest by his last bit of mascara. So long as he looked good, others presumed he was feeling better than he actually was, and that was how he preferred things to be. Despite having travelled as a pirate for several long weeks, the concept of being pushed into common description of a pirate was enough to make his stomach turn, and the itch driving him to impatience and the knowledge that soon, he would be up to his nose in fresh, hot, clean water was enough to make him shout at the ship to get his Captain's attention.

''Morrigan, will you please hurry up, my poor cuticles can't take another moment of this grime, and my hair, Morrigan, my poor hair...'' he trailed off, one step away from slapping the side of the ship with the heel of his palm. Inside, he heard Morrigan chuckle, and then, to his surprise, a bright green eye peered out from one of the many small holes that littered the hull, next to his hand as it collided with the thin woodwork.

''I'll be right out, Sugarpea.'' Morrigan said in a high-pitched voice from the other side of the wall. Yonyon didn't grace his Captain with a verbal reply, and inside kicked the ship with the toe of his boot roughly, eyes rolling when the wood caved in to create yet another hole. If the ship wasn't mostly made of iron, he would have been amazed at the tub's ability to remain afloat, let alone provide a roof for the maniac in-side’s crew. He gave the hole a poisonous glare, then crossed his arms, huffing at how ridiculous the entire situation was. He didn't have to huff for long; as if satisfied by the Okama's level of impending hysteria, Morrigan launched himself from the deck and landed neatly next to his First Mate, a winning grin upon his face. He tipped an invisible hat, then offered the Okama his arm in mock gentlemanliness. ''May I have the pleasure of your company this fine afternoon, milady?''

Wrinkling his nose at his Captain's humour, he took Morrigan's arm reluctantly, grimacing at at the grime that clung to the man's skin. If Yonyon had tried to look his best and remain clean despite the horrific conditions currently on-board the ship, Morrigan Rassallion looked... worse for wear.

On the shore came The Fourth, docking in the sand rather than the harbor so as to go unnoticed. But now, most pirates and bounty hunters alike knew what it meant when a black ship with red lettering on the hull meant; it meant you were dead. The captain of this dreaded ship didn't want this impression though, and instead favored the stealthy approach this time around. While the sea-gypsies were on land tying the ship up, Ragnarok turned to Carmen and asked, "Now what is it you are not going to do while I'm out hunting?" Snorting, Carmen crossed her arms and turned away from her captain, stamping her left foot and refusing to answer. Goliath, who was stood behind Carmen, gently placed his massive hand on her shoulder and answered for her. "We'll stay and watch the ship, as you ordered." Ragnarok looked up at him and gave a quick nod. Turning away from each other simultaneously, Carmen and the captain of the black ship went their separate ways for the time being. Standing at the edge of the mass was Clopis, the ships' first mate. Smiling tenderly at his captain as he approached, he asked in a tentative voice, "Are you ready to go hunting big man?" Ragnarok didn't give an answer but instead stepped off of the edge of the ship and landed with his feet square on the ground, his knees bent, and his head almost touching the ground from how much he crouched. He felt no real pain from this, or at least none he wasn't accustomed to. Clopis, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, reached into his pocked and pulled out a thin rope with a three pronged hook attached to it. Hooking it onto the side of the ship, he climbed his way down the side of the hull in leaps and bounds, his dark black hair waving in pristine glamour that could only come from a fresh shower. When he reached the bottom, Ragnarok the Destroyer was still tucked away in his awkward crouched position.

Sighing and giving his rope a jolt, sending it loose from the top of the hull and down into the sand with him, he coiled the rope around his hand and tucked it away in his pocket, saying as he did, "Any day now sweet heart." The captain's response to this was to rise up slowly as though unfolding or activating for the first time. When he was stood at his full height, he looked up at the top of his ship and smiled, calling out, "WOMAN! Where's my sword chain?!" As if in reply from the heavens themselves, a thick chain adorned with thirteen separate swords came flying from over the top of the ship and landed in the moist sand, most of which were sticking up though some fell over. Chuckling, more at the fact that one had almost impaled his foot than anything, he called back a thanks and picked up the blade closest to him, coiling it around his arm in much the same fashion as his first mate had coiled the rope around his hand. This set of many swords was probably useless to him on this endeavor, but he figured he would take them just in case anything unexpected did happen. Though, what it could do to affect him he wasn't sure. It was still better safe than sorry. Clopis, having returned his rope and hook from whence it came, walked over to his captain and said, "She's a bit moody, don't you think? Wouldn't it be best if we just dropped her off on an island somewhere? Here's nice, and will be a lot nicer without another pirate bounty hunter inland that could kill her."

"She's just having growing pains," Ragnarok stated, walking forward with Clopis following him. "Wait for the contractions to stop, you'll see that she can do better." Rolling his eyes, Clopis pointed out, "Contracts are for pregnant women." Stopping, the captain of the Fourth turned and looked as his first mate and asked, "Really? I thought they applied to period pains to." Clopis sighed and remarked, "I think it's something similar but at the same time entirely different. You're asking the wrong person, sweetpea." Frowning in consideration, Ragnarok turned and walked on, continuing, "Anyways, she'll stop once she's off the rag, of that I can guarantee you."

"I don't think she's on the rag, as you put it, though," Clopis said, shivering at the rude language. "Of course she is," Ragnarok said, continuing his course. "All women are on the rag when they're not getting their way. Life lesson," he remarked casually, coming to a stop and dropping the coil of blades onto the sand while holding onto the end of the chain that connected them all. He took in a breath and called in a booming voice, "Listen up all of you sea urchins! We're looking for a man who goes by the name Sir Futtleschukle. You lot are to find him, and bring him to me if I don't find him first. You're all gypsies, so I know you'll use whatever means are necessary to meet this end." To this his crew of sea-faring beggars all gave cheers of agreement and hearty laughs, knowing that this was going to be fun. Continuing, their captain cried over the cheers, "I don't know what he looks like currently and I've long since forgotten the face, but the man that goes by that name shouldn't be too hard to find. Search everywhere, every nook and cranny and find him and bring him back to me." He began to turn away, stopped, thought better of what he had said, and added on quickly at the end, turning back slightly as he did, "Alive." Needing no more instruction than this, the sea wandering gypsies all spread out in multiple directions in search of the query. Clopis, stayed by his captain's side as he relayed the orders, taking care of the grime underneath his nails. When they had gone, he blew on them and asked, "Your orders captain?"

"Clopis, you're sticking with me," Ragnarok said bluntly, walking off down the beach, dragging the bundle of swords behind him as he went. Clopis followed behind after him, his hands in his pockets so as not to get them dirty and his eyes up ahead. "You're the cleverest gypsy of the lot, so you'll know where to look first I'd wager. So, tell me, where should we head first?" Pondering on this for a moment as they walked the beach, Clopis said after a moment's trailing footsteps in the sand, "The most likely places for a bounty hunter to be on an island like this would be at a bar, hotel, or brothel assuming they have any of them at all on this island... assuming there's any sort of civilization at all. If there's not a civilization, he'll want some place for shelter that's relatively close to fresh water and food but out of sight so as to stay protected." Nodding, Ragnarok remarked, "Okay, so we'll look around and see if there's any sort of township at all first and if not we'll start looking for any cabins or huts he might have built and if all else fails we'll search the caves. He's supposed to be on this island, so he's got to be here somewhere. Goodwill hunting to you Clopis," the gypsy's captain said with a nod, walking ahead of the gypsy who simply rolled his eyes and followed his leader, not without a grumble of contempt or two.

In the distance, set in the shadow of a large mountainous hill, lay a small, dusty township; their intended destination. As the two pirates walked, their pace matching, they remained quiet, for both were deep in thought and genuinely thankful for the feel of solid earth beneath their feet. It was a rare occasion that both Morrigan and Yonyon chose to keep their individual thoughts to themselves, yet the sheer relief of being out of immediate danger for the first time in weeks exhausted their will for sarcastic banter. It didn't take long for the distant town to become less so; soon, the pirates were attracting more attention than they would have liked but couldn't have helped as the inhabitants stopped in the streets to stare at the outsiders. It took even less time for them to vacate the area and seek cover from the strangers in the assorted buildings to either side of them. Morrigan smiled, spotting a building with an aged, rickety sign amongst the various shops and houses.

''Vacancies...'' Morrigan muttered, suddenly coming to an abrupt halt, yanking Yonyon back in the process.

''Huh?'' Yonyon yelped as he almost tripped over his skirt. He scowled as he squinted over to the sign that had caught Morrigan's attention, his bad mood vanishing in an instant. ''Okay, we're staying there.''

This time, it was the young Captain's turn to yelp suddenly as the Okama dragged him forwards by the arm towards the motel. It wasn't much to look at; the moment the pirates entered the reception, they were greeted by a short, fat woman who, like they, had certainly seen better days. Or, they at least hoped.

''We'll take a room, just for the day. We're not planning on sticking around for too long.'' Yonyon said, wrinkling his nose hypocritically as the woman behind the counter picked at her dirty nails.

''You married?'' the woman asked, glancing at the Okama's left hand suspiciously.

''Me? To him?'' Yonyon said, half shocked, half disgusted. ''No, I'm far too young to be married. It has nothing to do with our custom, regardless. You do have an empty room? The sign outside advertised as such.'' Yonyon retorted, sneering slightly at the rudeness he had been met with. Morrigan chuckled lightly; apparently, the uncleanliness of his First Mate was starting to get to him.

''Can't give you one room if you're not married. That's our custom.'' The witch replied, glaring. ''Can give you two rooms, or none. We don't like no sin here.''

''Gods, she just wants a shower, I'm not going to fuck him all over your pristine bedsheets.'' Morrigan sighed, purposefully confusing his First Mate's gender to further complicate the situation. Yonyon turned scarlet.

''You're just trying to scrape more money from us, witch.'' Yonyon sneered, dumping a small bag of gold onto the counter. ''You'd better have hot water.''

''If you're lucky.'' She replied, grinning toothlessly. Handing over two rusty keys, she gave the two pirates one last withering look, then returned to inking in her inventory book had as though they had never been there at all. Perhaps it were for the best, Morrigan thought as Yonyon examined the neglected keys with a resigned air of disdain. If they wanted to relax at all, it was in all of their best interests to avoid a scene of any kind, whether it meant paying for two rooms instead of one or not.

Yonyon rolled his eyes, then, taking Morrigan by the elbow, pulled him along out of the room. ''Last time we resort to some hole in the ground for hot showers.'' he muttered, fuming. The keys in his hand clanked together as if in agreement with each exaggerated step he took, and as entertaining as Morrigan thought the whole situation, even he thought the service they had been treated to was substandard at best. Still, he thought, his mind returning to his damaged ship in the harbour, having Yonyon in a better mood for their repairs would certainly speed their progress along.

It was just as this thought crossed his mind that Yonyon spotted the first of the two rooms, and, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that he be settled first, unlocked the aged, stained door and tossed the remaining key to his Captain. Without another word, nor a glance over his shoulder, Morrigan was met with a door slammed in his face, yet even Yonyon's pissiness couldn't bring a smile to his face once he had been reminded of the poor condition of his vessel. The battered key in his fist bitterly reminded him of it. Sighing, he continued a little way down the corridor, watching the birds in the unkempt courtyard to his left as he walked. He needed funds to repair the damage the Alpha has sustained, and as he passed a cloaked figure, he snickered. ''Perhaps I could whore that pissy shemale out...''

He had of course been speaking to himself, and he was of course joking, but the cloaked figure suddenly came to a halt as they passed shoulder to shoulder, as though offended by the pirate's mutterings. Unphased, Morrigan carried on, spotting his room a few doors away. Cracking his neck loudly, he fumbled with the key in the lock, until the door creaked open ominously. Behind him, some distance away, the hooded figure eyed the number to his room, took a quick note of it upon a crumpled bounty poster he had been holding tightly in his fist, then turned and left the scene.

The room was nothing worth bragging about. Smaller than what he had expected yet caring less about it, Morrigan headed straight to the bathroom and turned the shower on, sighing in relief as the water heated quickly, washing the dirt from the hand that he had used to test it. The wheel creaked loudly as he turned it to adjust the pressure, yet it was no surprise to him that altering it had no effect whatsoever. Just as the broken receptionist, this room had certainly seen better days, but he paid it no mind as he stepped out of his trousers and into the hot mist.

He stayed there a while, not bothering to wash for several long moments as his thoughts yet again drifted back to his ship. Getting help on such a run-down, beat up island would be a difficult task, and he couldn't see anybody knowing anything about fixing up ships as badly damaged as his... let alone be willing to take a look at it. No, the very moment Morrigan stepped foot outside the ship and saw the silhouette of buildings in the distance, he knew what type of town it was. It was the type of town where everybody knew everybody, and strangers weren't welcome. Even the religious attitude of the old woman screamed begone and never look back. Morrigan sniggered as the water ran into his eyes, stained dark by the grime that he washed from his dark green hair. The cleaner he became, the more his skin crawled at the sensation of the water running down his back. It were as though the dirt had formed a barrier against it, and uncleanliness or not, the moment it was gone, Morrigan wished for it back. Shuddering suddenly at the hot water, he wondered if Yonyon was enjoying his shower, and wondered if making the Alpha Morina seaworthy again were even a pheasable possibility.

[WC this post: 1276] [My total WC: 2456] [Total collab WC: 4890]

Last edited by Leviathan on Mon May 27, 2013 2:05 am; edited 2 times in total

Bitter was the word for the old woman sitting behind the counter of the small island motel. Run down and nearly forgotten, even by the residents of the island, it was, in short, a shithole. The rooms weren't properly taken care of, the courtyard, if you could call it such a thing, was in disarray and the company was ill favored at best. So when Ragnarok approached the door after three hours of walking, brooding and in a mood that meant no lip from anyone, it wasn't much of a surprise that things went the way they did. As the fat witch sat scribbling one thing or another, there came a knock at the door. Not bothering to look up, she called out, “It's open whoever you are! I assume you're with that green haired fella and that blond. Not but trouble if you ask me, but I does my work and I don't spread gossip, so come get your rooms while they're available and I don't change my mind!” While this was being said, her toothless mouth gumming open and closed over the registry book she was scribbling in, Ragnarok pushed the door open and walked in silently, dragging behind him the silent reproach of his rattling chains and blades.

Clopis was not far behind, wary of his captain in his current state. He hadn't said much of anything during their walk into town once his captain had stopped responding. Just a few minutes earlier, they had approached the motel and stopped in their tracks. “Oh, please don't tell me we have to go in there captain... it looks positively filthy! And it reeks of dead rodents... or maybe it's the locals.” Taking no notice of his words, Ragnarok had approached the door silently, the only sounds to be heard were the fluttering of his coat in the breeze and the rickety clang of his special package behind him on the ground. Clopis was worried, his captain wasn't the silent type... not usually. A man of few and crude words, sure, but hardly ever silent. When silence fell over the man, there was usually something brewing behind his eyes. So when the gypsy rushed over to his captain as he came upon the door and asked, “What are you going to do in this dirty place?” he was all too surprised to find him sigh, turn and say, “I just want to talk to them.”

It was the sound of the chains that set her off. It obviously wasn't foot steps that she was hearing. No, what she heard sent a chill down her spine though she wasn't sure why. Looking up from her book, she found herself face to face with the black adorned chest of Ragnarok, though she did not know it. Looking further up, she saw his face – grim, set and icy. She narrowed her eyes, not impressed. She looked down at his chain and blades and snarled, saying, “We don't take your kind in this motel. If you're with that green haired fella, you'd better get him and get out! We don't need his money around here, not for the price-” She got no further. At that moment the blade of a sword nearly sliced her left eye and temple simultaneously. It instead stuck on the old key rack behind her. It had been so fast! When had he even removed a blade from the chain, or had he at all? She didn't know, but she felt something wet go down her cheek. She lifted her hand up slowly and touched her cheek, moved it away and saw her fingers had been stained red. The blade hadn't completely missed it seems. Lifting one booted foot up and stamping it down on top of the desk, setting his legs at an awkward angle, then with a small jump came the other, the pirate captain sat hunched on this old receptionists' desk, his eyes wide and cold, his face steel and his head tilted to the side so as to get a better look at the growing fear in the old woman's eyes. He waited, simply looking and daring her to make a move or sound, waited until she was shaking on the spot before speaking. When he did, it was the voice of an apologetic angel rather than the metallic face of business that the woman was thinking it would be.

“We're looking for a man, a bounty hunter who was supposed to be held up on this island. Name's Sir Futtleschuckle, is he here?” He didn't wait for a proper answer, knew that he wouldn't get one even if he did wait. Instead, he pulled the blade out from the key rack and stabbed it down onto the book the receptionist had been practically doodling in. The tip of the blade impaled the book but not the desk. His eyes did not shift from hers. He scooted the book through his legs so that it was under him and said quietly, “Clopis, check the registry, he'll be in there if he was here.”

Clopis did as he was told, reaching under the red jacket and taking a hold of the book, waiting only for his captain to withdraw his blade before opening it properly to read, which was done promptly. The sword was neither placed back in the wall or in the woman, but instead was held directly in front of her, as deadly as an executioners' ax and twice as threatening. Clopis flipped through the pages of the registry, wrinkling his nose at how dusty the pages were. He went backwards, knowing that if their man was here he would have checked in days before their arrival. After a few momentary page flips, he found it and closed the book. “He's here, captain,” he confirmed, placing the book gently on the desk and taking a step back, wiping his hands on a handkerchief.

“What does he look like?” Ragnarok asked in his sweet voice and his steel mask. When the old hag did not answer in a seconds' time, he exploded, “WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE, WOMAN!?” She gave a faint cry and choked on her words, only able to get out the word “cloak”. It was enough. Narrowing his eyes, Ragnarok stood up on top of the registry desk and turned around, looking down on his first mate and saying, “This is an island community, I doubt there's many people here in cloaks. Find the cloak, find the man. We'll search the rooms first.” Hopping off of the desk, the captain of the Fourth headed down the way of the rooms, dragging both his weapons and his first mate behind him. The old woman was able to croak out, now that she was free of the mans' gaze, “You're not welcome here, the lot of you!” to which Clopis replied with a quick turn around, curtsy, and a rousing reply of, “You smell funny.”

Down the hall they went to a small corridor of rooms, each numbered. There weren't many so there could only be so many places that Sir Futtleschuckle could be held up in. “I'll search in some, you take the others.” Ragnarok said, heading down the hall, intending to start at the room furthest from the door. Sighing, Clopis called back to him, “If you insist!” and went about selecting a room. In a word, he went eeny meeny miney moe on which room he would take and pulled a hair pin out of the back of his hair, just in case the door was locked. He tried the handle first, naturally, and was pleased to find that either the lock had long since rusted away or was empty or the occupant had forgotten. Whatever the reason, he walked in and heard the shower running. Not sure if this was their man or not, he replaced the hair pin and reached into the back of his pants, pulling out a small dagger and holding it, blade backwards, prepared for anything... except a female figure. When he came to the bathroom and found it unlocked, he took a breath and threw the door open, seeing just for a moment a long shower of blond hair and a tight posterior – a feminine posterior. Letting out a screech of surprise, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it, blushing furiously and crying out, “Oh! Oh! Sorry ma'am, wrong room... oh!” Embarassed, Clopis headed back out into the hall, closing the door behind him and letting out a breath.

Ragnarok, in the mean time, had gotten through checking two rooms, both of which were empty. He spared no expense and simply kicked the doors in. He had neither the time nor the patience to check to see if they were locked or not. He had in mind one thing and one thing only, murder. When he came upon the third, with an elated, for he was starting to have some fun in this, and resounding kick, he came yet again to an empty room, though not uninhabited. Signs of habitation were all around, messy bed, small piles of paper, disturbed dust. He checked all of the other places, closet, bathroom, et cetera and found neither wind nor hare of his prey, though this had to be his room didn't it? A small island place like this, there were bound to be few customers. So a room that showed signs of life must be their match. “Clopis!” he called out, “We've got a match! Get in here, now.”

Promptly, Clopis came down the hall and stepped into the room that contained Ragnarok, taking a quick peek into the other rooms he had entered before doing so. When he found his captain sitting on the bed, waiting, he was at first confused, thinking that they would find the man in his room. Instead, he was ordered in a very Ragnarok fashion, “You're a gypsy, you're good at disappearing, maybe our boy is to. Sniff him out for me, see if you can't find any signs of where he might be.” Nodding, Clopis did a quick scan of the room to see if there were any of the usual signs for a sudden disappearance. Things like unsettled dust, scrape marks, hairs, any sign of a person leaving in a hurry. When none of these were made evident, he began a more thorough search. It took a little bit, but Clopis was very thorough and knew exactly what to look for. After a bit, the only place left to look was the bed. Shooing his captain away with both of his hands, he examined the bed in its entirety, only to find an old bounty sheet with a red X marked over the picture. “This is our man alright, he was here,” he said, rolling up the bounty and tucking it away in his sleeve. “Now the only question is where he is currently. There's no sign of him leaving in a hurry, so it should be safe to assume that he's still on the island. We could just wait for him to get back...”

Clopis and Ragnarok shared a look. A look of understanding, a conversation without words that took place at the speed of light. Sighing, Clopis curtsied and said, “After you captain,” knowing full well that he wasn't a man to normally sit and wait. Exiting the room, Ragnarok walked down the corridor and out of the little motel with his gypsy first mate not far behind. Once outside again, he said, “I want you to tell the others that they are to search every crack and crevice of this town until he is found. He is not to leave, if he has a ship it's to be burnt. If he has friends, they're to be captured. Make sure you get back to me within the hour.” Saying no more and no more needing be said, Clopis went about to tell the others their orders and Ragnarok headed further into town to see if he couldn't sniff out this foe without the help of the gypsies.

Water. Hot, cascading water, rippling down his back... rippling through him as he finally relaxed enough for flesh to flawlessly merge into smoke. His thoughts became wonderfully vacant, just as clear and unrestrained as the water that rained down upon him, washing away his doubts, fears, and the last dregs of his restraint. In a world where you were either a civilian or a criminal, a bounty hunter or a Marine... a pirate or a tyrant, it wasn't enough to simply exist. No, in such a world, one would have to exceed the expectations of the masses, forgo their past selves to forever strive for success and victory. A civilian would eventually become a criminal. A Marine would eventually become a gun for hire. A pirate would eventually become a tyrant, if he or she weren't one already. Smoke melded and eventually gave way to the steam that had rapidly started to fill the room; good or evil? Morrigan wasn't sure where he stood. He had cut down more Marines than he had cared to count, yet hadn't looted or pillaged a single town or ship thus far. He had paid for everything with his own funds, and said funds were starting to run dangerously low. With his ship in dire need to attention, the young Captain was faced with an impossible, yet enticing question... Just how far would he go for his adopted dream?

He snorted and opened his mouth to the shower of spray above him, ignoring the lingering taste of rust as the water filled his mouth. Life had been so dull before he had taken to the seas, yet was this what he really wanted? His mother had wanted the title of 'Pirate King' for herself, yet even an immensely powerful, strong-willed woman such as she had utterly failed when push came to shove. Did he stand a chance? The question became ridiculously rhetorical as it crossed his mind. Spitting out the water into the drain at his feet, he sniggered loudly, the noise masked by the hiss of the tap as he span the wheel once again, and the water was silenced.

[~]

Yonyon breathed a deep, satisfied sigh of relief as he stepped into the shower within his own room, yet the sound quickly morphed into something resembling a strangled screech as the previously heated water turned ice-cold a few moments after he had started showering. Cursing loudly, he hit the tap with the heel of his palm childishly, shivering violently, only for the shower to respond in an equally petulant manner by spraying him in a scalding hot shower of water.

He fought with the age-old contraption a few minutes longer before giving up, far too frustrated to carry on any longer. Seconds became minutes, and minutes turned to timeless moments. This too did not last. The moment Yonyon began to relax, the door behind him burst open to reveal... a rather well-spoken gypsy man. Being far too surprised to scream or throw a towel at the intruder, Yonyon stared at the man as the man stared back, before the spell was broken all in an instant and the man retreated hastily, his tone embarrassed and overwhelmed. Blinking, dumbstruck, Yonyon couldn't find the words to express what he was feeling, beyond a level of shock and embarrassment that rivalled that of the gypsy man, and a feeling of pure relief as his gender was mistaken. He remained motionless for several long moments as everything settled in, then, with a high-pitched scream that could be heard several rooms away... ''MORRIGAN!!!''

[~]

After pondering philosophies for far too long, the young Captain had taken to sitting in the discoloured tub. His shower had long since lost it's heat, and his flesh responded in turn with shudders as the hairs stood up to preserve his body heat. Morrigan found himself caring less and less as the tub began to fill, the plug blocked. For him, time stood still, for his mood had turned uncharacteristically melancholy. The rhythm of the falling water resembled tinnitus; overpowering in it's ability to nullify all sound and own one's sense of hearing, yet oddly cathartic. The hissing of the water and the feeling of it hitting his back eased him into a form of silent meditation, whereby the never-ending orchestra of falling liquid blanketed his consciousness like deathly silence. It was strange how something meant to be cleansing created the illusion of damnation. His lip twitched slightly, betraying his morbid humour to the emptiness of the room, his limbs growing heavy and numb as the bathwater steadily rose. Soon, he would be paralysed by the stagnant water, his Devil Fruit the heaviest shackle known to all of creation. He didn't want to move, not even when Yonyon's scream somehow pierced beyond the veil of his near-coma. His skin crawled with anticipation. If he owned a pistol, he knew he would have been sat with the barrel to his temple, even as Yonyon burst through the door, dressed in nothing but a ragged, yellowing towel. The bathroom door slammed heavily behind him as he stood, dripping water everywhere. Morrigan's lip twitched again. What a strange relationship they had.

''You won't believe what just happened t-'' Yonyon started, water dripping from his hair, his wet clothes swung over his arm. He didn't get to finish his sentence, for at that moment, the door behind him was kicked open to reveal the hooded man that had passed the young Captain earlier on that day. The wooden doorknob rebounded from the wall it struck, shattering a good portion of the discoloured, square tiles that covered it from floor to ceiling.

''Nope. Care for a mutual bath?'' he replied, pointing to his crotch. Yonyon's expression clearly spoke volumes about his internal conflict. He either wanted to desperately laugh, or desperately cry. As Morrigan raised an eyebrow to look at him, he thought it could have been both, and this fact only served to amuse him even more. The hooded man, on the other hand, didn't look or sound amused in the slightest.

''Another disgusting pirate with disgusting habits, destined for the noose! Come quietly, I'm here to collect the bounty on your head!'' Sir Futtleschuckle spat, narrowing his eyes. ''Wait, what? How could you not have heard of somebody as famous as I!?'' he exploded, stamping his foot and almost slipping upon the puddle of shower water Yonyon had previously made. Yonyon, utterly horrified at being near-naked in the same room as a total stranger for the second time in one day, pressed his back up against the ruined wall, as if to make himself as small as possible. Morrigan didn't reply, which made the strange bounty hunter stamp even harder. ''Ignoring me? How is that even possible, I'm here to collect your head, whether it's still attached to your shoulders or not, and you're sat in a bathtub, ass-naked and weaponless... and still you ignore!?''

The young Captain sighed in contentment as the water collecting around him finally started to paralyse him, signalling it was time to move. Had Sir Futtleschuckle not interrupted his silent musings, he would have allowed the water to come up to his chin, and he would have savoured being utterly powerless for a while. In a world where power meant everything, to have it all mean nothing, even for a few minor moments... was a thing to be considered priceless and rare. The most powerful men in the entire world felt tiny and pathetic when trapped in the noose the bounty hunter had described. Power, fame, glory... all meant nothing when the chips were down, and as Morrigan rose slowly from the water, dramatically even, he decided that the chips belonging to Sir Futtleschuckle were indeed down. As his Captain rose from his bath, Yonyon looked away, blushing. He had been so caught up in his own drama that the thought that Morrigan was naked hadn't even crossed his mind. It hadn't mattered that he had seen it all before, for before, it had all been in a medical light and he had treated everything with the same, professional detachment as was expected of his profession as a doctor. Now, however, things were different; he had barged into the room without so much as thinking to knock, and how easily something so simple and commonplace had slipped his mind made him blush all the more. Morrigan kicked water at him, rolling his eyes. Sir Futtleshuckle began to fume at being ignored for so long.

''What the hell is wrong with you two freaks!? Did you not hear me?'' the hooded man growled, suddenly drawing a battered pistol from within the folds of his cloak and aiming it at Morrigan. ''I'm here with a gun in your face, and you're choosing to ignore that!?''

A bullet whizzed past the pirate's face, an inch from his temple. It appeared as though despite the poor condition of his weapon, the bounty hunter was a decent shot. ''One last chance. Put some clothes on-''

''No.'' Morrigan said simply, stretching. ''I have a better idea. How about we all get naked? No? Suit yourself.'' As he spoke, the residual mist from the shower began to thicken at their feet. Looking down, Yonyon bit his lip, understanding what was going on. He risked making eye-contact with his Captain, who in turn winked, then suddenly, the entire room filled up with pearly-white smoke, obscuring everything from view. Scrambling to get dressed whilst blinded, Yonyon squinted through the smoke, attempting to avoid any contact with either of the other two men. He felt far too vulnerable. He wasn't even wearing his make-up.

''Breaking the shower won't help you for long, rat-pirate!'' the bounty hunter shouted, firing randomly in front of him. He didn't realise that the smoke was coming from his target, and this made Morrigan laugh loudly from somewhere within the shroud. With each click of the pistol's hammer, Morrigan relaxed. It wasn't quite the same as surrendering to the weightless oblivion he would have otherwise had, had his shower not been interrupted by his drama-queen of a First Mate or the irritating head-hunter with the ridiculously pompous name. Still... it was enough to distract him from his previously dangerous line of thought. ''Show yourself!'' Futtershuckle shouted, waving his hand rapidly in front of his nose to try clear his vision. His hood was suddenly yanked down.

''Why? Don't you like blindfolds during foreplay?'' Morrigan whispered in his ear. Panicking, the bounty hunter span around and fired yet more shots into the smoke, coughing wildly as surprise forced him to inhale a lungful of the poisonous miasma. ''I'll give you one chance to turn and get the fuck out of my room. I'll give you to the count of three. Unless you get naked. There's a strict no-clothes policy in place here, and I'm a fucking stickler for rules.''

This was apparently the final straw for the poor bounty hunter, who, upon feeling Morrigan's hot breath against the shell of his other ear, fell backwards into the bathtub full of ice-cold water. The smoke cleared instantly, revealing the young Captain leant casually against the bullet-ridden door frame, a large grin upon his face, an unlit cigarette held loosely between his chapped lips. Somewhere along the line, he had put his pants back on. Yonyon sighed in relief.

''So much for following rules, Captain...'' he trailed off, pulling his boot on to complete his own set of garments. His clothes may have still been wet, but they were much cleaner than before, and this was apparently enough to satisfy the Okama, at least for the moment.

''You know me. I make rules, and I break them. I would make a terrible Captain.'' the pirate replied, lighting his cigarette as Futtleshuckle flailed in an attempt to be free from the freezing water. Several times he attempted to raise himself to his feet, and each and every time he had shuddered from the cold and fallen back in. Morrigan exhaled a lung full of smoke, thoroughly amused by the sight.

''Thank the gods you're not.'' the Okama replied, grinning for the first time since they arrived. ''So, what do we do with this one then?''

''I'm not sure. Part of me wants to have a little bit more fun with him, but I doubt you'll let me.'' he replied, pouting. The sound of a shower curtain tearing punctuated his childishness perfectly.

''Well, I'm not in charge here.'' the Okama responded, examining his finger-nails.

Small towns were all the same, no matter where you were on the globe. There were two kinds of small towns - small towns where you were welcomed and the locals were friendly to you, or small towns where everyone and their grandmother didn't like strangers. This island town was the latter of the two, but what they both had in common was this: Everyone knew everyone else. So when strangers came about it was natural as the sun rising for the people on this island community to mistrust Ragnarok as he entered their facilities. There were few of them so he didn't spend long at their location - a general store, a "medical facility", or what sufficed as one, a motel he already went through, and a gambling house of all things. Each of these were relatively small and not far from them, perhaps a mile inland were the residential areas of the island. He started at the general store.

Walking inside, carrying his bundle over his shoulder rather than dragging it, the renowned captain walked over to where the attendee behind the counter and a local were chatting away. Seeing him coming, along with his package, the attendee clammed up and looked at the oncoming pirate. The local turned and followed suit not long after. Approaching the counter, the pirate looked around the store to find there was only one person aside from the two at the counter who was shopping who had potentially seen him walk in first. He doubted the cashier was the bounty hunter he was searching for, so that left only two to sort out. All was quiet. He turned back to the woman behind the counter, much younger and prettier than the old witch at the motel, who was talking with a similarly younger and good looking man for such a small community. Perhaps they were seeing each other, perhaps they were just discussing that. Whatever their topic, they had quieted up quickly when the black haired, sword slinging man walked in, sending a veil of chill in the atmosphere like a thin sheet. The woman spoke first, she was brave. "Can I help you?" She asked, her voice steady but her eye shaky. The pirate captain looked at her and smiled a toothy grin, amused at her bravery. Well, so long as they're being complacent... Ragnarok thought. He inquired; "I'm looking for a man named Sir Futtleschuckle. I know he's here on the island, I just don't know where. Would you be so kind as to enlighten me?"

Next to speak was the young man, drawing strength from his female companion and mistaking it for his own and therefore bolder for whatever reason. He spoke up in atone of mistrust that was obvious as butter. "We don't know any -" No further did he get before Ragnarok turned on him with a glare so full of fire and malice that came so suddenly the man actually flinched. His tone fierce, the pirate captain reminded him, "I was not addressing you, you falsely brave morsel." Turning back to the woman, his mouth now set in a hard line, he waited for her answer. After a moment of chilled silence, she spoke, her tone a little less brave than before. “He's been in here a couple of times. Acts like a big shot, like we all should know his name. I think he's annoying. He even -” Interrupting, Ragnarok said, “Is he here?” Frowning, the woman shook her head. Turning around slowly to take a look at the shopper, Ragnarok made eye contact for a moment and got a good look at them. A man, possibly in his early thirties. He could be the culprit, but how to be sure? He looked scared enough, but perhaps Sir Futtleschuckle would be. After all, he had run away that night so many years ago. So how to be sure...?

Turning away from the counter, he walked over to the man who had a small arm full of groceries and said, “If you're lying to me, and he is here... I'd hate to think what I might do. I upset so easily...” The look in his eye was one of pure malice as he loomed over the now shivering man. He clearly was not a leader, but a lamb for slaughter. If he was Sir Futtleschuckle, he would play his part well. Then, through the thin icy sheet like an arrow in the night, the woman at the register called out, “He's not here! Now leave!” Glaring, not enjoying being told what to do, the man on a mission years old turned back towards the counter and walked through the aisles toward it. Taking a good long look at the young lady, Ragnarok sized her up as best as he could. Without breaking eye contact from her, he reached up on the counter and took a hold of a blue stick of rock candy that was advertised to have been made right on the island, something for tourists he was sure, and placed it between his teeth. Judging by the way it tasted, they hadn't been sold for quite some time now. He didn't mind though, he had tasted worse things than old sugar. “Have a pleasant day,” he said in a low voice as he exited the general store, deciding the next best bet would be to go to the gambling house.

In almost direct contrast to the general store, the gambling house was full of people. He would have wagered, and this was the proper place for it if nothing else, that roughly 90 percent of the town's residence was there. What was confusing was how nice it looked inside. The floors were clean and carpeted, the walls look freshly painted, the uniformed on the employees looked pressed and pampered. You would almost think that the money from the gambling house was used to improve the gambling house. That was an absurd notion though... or perhaps it wasn't. Ragnarok would have used them to build more houses or to make a better medical facility, or maybe improve the tourist attractions on the island. Hell, that's what any sensible owner of a gambling house would do. It seemed that the people on this island weren't sensible though. A man in a red and blue striped vest walked up to him, smiling, all teeth and sunshine. “Hello sir!” he exclaimed, “Welcome to the gambling house, might I interest you in some Black Jack, or maybe you're a poker man! Not one for card games? We have a wide variety of -”

“Sir Futtleschuckle,” the captain of the Fourth Horseman interrupted, making the man in his pressed and shiny vest falter. “Where is he?” Now, the employee of the gambling house was paying attention and he actually took a look at the man before him. Tall, broad, mean looking and carrying a bundle of metal that had many points to it, he meant business. Perhaps a bounty hunter, perhaps a pirate. Impossible to tell. Picking his smile back up, if not nervously now, he put his hands together and said in a much less enthusiastic voice, “One moment sir while I go talk to my manager. Please wait here a moment...” Rushing off, the employee was soon lost in the crowd. Ragnarok took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He was hungry. Bad things generally happened when he was hungry, bad things to good people at that. Just as he was looking through the crowd, deciding who might be the best pickings, the red and blue vested individual came back with a man in a white dress shirt, a black bow tie, black pants and shining black shoes. His hair was slicked back and a thin mustache was just below his nose. “This way please,” he said, his voice steady. Ragnarok followed the man to a room with a desk and a set of monitoring stations and a bunch of other gambling house necessities. He didn't pay attention to them. He was all eyes for the manager of the gambling house.

“Mr. Futtleschuckle is a mutual acquaintance of ours,” the manager said once the door was closed, walking behind his desk and sitting down in the big chair which surely made him feel on top of the would and was probably paid with the money of the people of the island. Oh well, not his problem. “He owes us a small debt. Nothing substantial, just a couple dozen berries is all. Still, we haven't seen him in the gambling house for a couple of days now. Would you mind telling me what your business is with him..?” the manager asked, eying Ragnarok's swords. “Not that it's any of your business,” he said, shrugging his chain off of his shoulder and letting it fall to the floor. The manager flinched, no doubt he knew every berry that it cost to install that carpet. He walked forward towards the desk, dragging behind him the many ways to kill a man. The manager cringed and his eyes went wide. It must really have been expensive carpet, it made Ragnarok smile. “I just want to kill him is all. Where is he?”

Now thoroughly upset, the man glared at Ragnarok and stood up. He slammed his hands on his desk, trying to assert himself as the dominant figure in the room. His superiority complex probably had something to do with the amount of berries he had stolen from the many people of this island without them even realizing it. Not that it mattered, he was still being brave enough, or perhaps stupid enough, to think that shouting at a man with a literal string of swords would be enough to detour him. “Now see here, I will not have you threatening any of my customers, especially while they still hold a debt to me! I must ask you to leave this facility at once! Security!”

Sighing, Ragnarok drew from his hip the sword that Shipwreck had given him and held it up to the man's throat, so close that it was barely touching and yet it was enough to draw blood. The manager got quiet in an instant. He hadn't even seen Ragnarok's hand move towards his hip it had been so fast. “Now,” Ragnarok said in a low, menacing voice that was completely business, “I don't care what sort of big wig you think you are, but to me you're lunch. I mean that quite literally. I could slit your throat now, and before the blood would begin to flow you would catch fire that would jump down your throat and turn you crispier than my morning bacon. I'm going to give you once chance and one chance only to give me a straight answer, if you fail to give me exactly what I want just the way I want it, you're going to be eaten, but first you're going to be burnt. I always do prefer a cooked meal to a raw one...” Licking his dry lips, his mouth already filling with saliva at the thought, Ragnarok angled the blade so that it would dig into the cleanly shaven flesh of the man. “Sir Futtleschuckle, location,” he said, all serious tones and heart attacks.

“T-the little motel down the way, he's staying there,” The manager muttered. “I know that already, where is he at currently?” Ragnarok growled, his patience wearing thin. “I don't know! I swear I don't know!” The manager was practically in tears now. He had looked deep in Ragnarok's eyes and saw the hunger there, knew that he wasn't lying when he said that he would eat him for lunch if he didn't comply. Narrowing his eyes, Ragnarok took his blade away from the man's throat and re-sheathed it. Turning away from the man, he headed for the door, dragging his cargo behind him as he did, leaving many a rip and rut in the carpet. The last he heard of the manager was his cries of shock, probably at the loss of his perfect floor. Whatever, the pirate captain had hunting to do. He exited the gambling house, and by the time he had left all eyes were on him. Now outside once again, standing in the island sun, Ragnarok grew restless. Where was he? He surely wasn't at the medical facility, the gambling house manager would have known if he was. He would want to know where he would collect his debt, after all. So could he possibly be in one of the houses inland? He turned that direction, wondering what the probability of it was. Before he would give it any serious thought though, Clopis came up form behind him and tapped his shoulder, making his captain snap his head back and look at his First Mate.

“You'd better have something,” Ragnarok said, looking back towards the homes of the islanders, wondering which ones he would have to burn to snuff out his prey. “You'll be in a much better mood when you hear what we've found grumpy,” Clopis stated in a typically Clopis fashion. “The boys found his ship, it's burning as we speak. You should be able to see the smoke on the east shore by about now...” the gypsy mused, turning that way. His captain did the same, seeing the black pillar of smoke rise up from the shoreline brought a smile to his face. “There's more,” Clopis continued, “a man in a hood was seen going into the motel not long after we left and went our separate ways. The boys think he's our best bet for our prey, so what now?”

“What else?” Ragnarok said. “Back to the motel. If he's there, he's mine. If not, we'll move on to the houses and burn them down until we get our man.” Needing to say no more, the dead pirate walked back towards the motel where Sir Futtleschuckle was said to be held up in. If the gypsies were right, and they were seldom wrong, this would be at long last the opportunity that Ragnarok had been waiting for for so long. He would not be denied the simple pleasure of ending this mans' life with fire and gore, he would not.

By the time the bounty hunter had managed to drag himself unsteadily to his feet, he was utterly fuming. Each exhaled breath was punctuated with a violent shiver, and each violent shiver was punctuated with a large puff of smoke from Morrigan's cigarette. His pistol was now utterly useless; as he took a shaky step forwards, water flowed freely from the barrel, tainting the already dirty water with black gunpowder.

''Well?'' Morrigan said, his tone bored. It spoke volumes about how interesting his life had recently become; if a bounty hunter attack had only amused him for a few minutes, there was little else the man could do to hold his attention for any longer. The bounty hunter could only respond with furious gasps, far beyond the capacity to form a coherent sentence. ''I guess so. Yonyon, with me.'' the young Captain ordered. It felt strange upon his tongue, actually commanding one of his crew, rather than allowing them the simple pleasure of their own initiative. An acidic orb of candy where one had instead been expecting sweet. He wasn't sure he would ever get used to it. He wanted a crew of brothers and sisters, not a crew of mindless puppets. Yonyon, however, spoke nothing against his Captain's sudden change of tone and followed him out of the bathroom, gently closing the door behind him as if it hide Futtleshuckle's embarrassment at being so easily cast aside from the world. A cruel kindness. The bounty hunter did not share the sentiment. Stepping over the rim of the tub, he stumbled and caught himself upon the wall, the action poking fire into his already growing rage. As soon as the room stopped spinning, he kicked the door from it's hinges and tore after the pirates, his yellowing teeth bared, his rough, chapped lips flecked with spit.

Morrigan paused. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at the little rat of a man who followed him so persistently. Not even his drenched appearance could bring humour to the Captain's mood by that point. ''Fantastic show of strength there. Or, it would have been, had the door not been rotten and hanging from its hinges already. I'll say it one more time, just for the sake of my own conscience. I'll give you to the count of three to get out of my room. One.'' Futtleshuckle took a defiant step forwards, closing the distance between them, his mad eyes bulging from their sockets obscenely. ''Two.'' Morrigan warned, his left hand coming to rest upon the handle of his katana. The bounty hunter spat to the side and drew a rusted dagger from his belt, seeing red. ''Three.''

Nudging Yonyon out of the way in a way that could only be described as utterly gentle, Morrigan turned to face his hunter, his own eyes narrowing as his First Mate's eyebrows raised in curiosity. Despite travelling together for over two months, Yonyon still hadn't quite gotten used to how temperamental and mercurial his Captain's mood swings were. A normal day, for Morrigan, consisted of several manic highs and an equal amount of depressive lows; one moment, he would be cheeky and full of joy, the next, his mood became brooding and his thoughts philosophical, dark, and hostile. Not wanting to worsen the Captain's mood, Yonyon stepped back willingly. Things always got messy when Morrigan fought in a bad mood.

He watched as the two men circled one another, his lip twitching; a restrained grin that would have been inappropriate in light of the poor fool who apparently just couldn't back down and walk away. He watched as Futtleshuckle exchanged knife-hands over and over, the movement practised and fluid, spurred on by the fact that Morrigan had yet to draw any of his swords. Pulling a rickety chair out from under the two-person table, the Okama took a seat, crossing his legs as he did so, his soaked clothes completely ignored. Instead of intervening, he turned his attentions to the bounty hunter and attempted to analyse what he saw. The man circling Morrigan appeared to be in his early forties, and was in dire need of a wash. Though his movements with his blade were seemingly engraved into his mind from practice, his hands shook with a certain whimsical instability that spoke volumes about his drug habits. The Okama shook his head slightly, his hypothesis reinforced by the dark, bruised bags under the man's glazed eyes, and the off-colour, bloodshot whites that surrounded green irises so thin they may have well not existed, for his pupils were wide, staring, and utterly soulless. It was obvious by the poor condition of Futtleshuckle's clothes that they were old and in dire need of repair. Even if the grime and stains could be washed out (albeit with hard work), no amount of skill could bring them back to a respectable condition by way of actually fixing the many holes and frayed hems that seemed to litter the entirety of his garments. His tattered appearance were only worsened, if possible, by the contrast of sallow, off-colour skin that betrayed a liver condition that the man probably knew about yet had neither the funds nor resources to be cured of.

Yonyon tapped his lip thoughtfully. If he were a civilian doctor once again, he would have been reluctant to treat the man because of his attitude. There was little doubt in mind that other doctors had turned him away. Probably because of his unhealthy drug habits, no doubt. Futtleshuckle seemed to be the type of individual to throw away his health straight after having it fixed up; the bottle and the needle, the causes of his illness to start with, would be turned to straight away, the very first source of comfort and oblivion he sought after many a long month confined to a hospital ward. The Okama frowned. He didn't think it possible that the man could repulse him any more than he had originally done by barging into the room, gun blazing, and yet... as Futtleshuckle snarled at his Captain, he felt the bile turn in his stomach at the very idea of such an unwashed, self destructive individual ever having existed to start with.

It wasn't that Yonyon despised him for being so... deathly unclean, nor was it the man's poor circumstances that had led him to desperately trying to collect Morrigan's bounty that repelled the Okama. No, it was the sheer unwillingness to change his terrible existence that set his teeth on edge and made him want to leave the room. It was the fact that he was looking at years and years of self-inflicted damage that made him feel so ill. It wouldn't have been unrealistic to guess that the bounty hunter had spent literally half of his life under the influence of the bottle and needle. Perhaps he had managed to summon up the strength to try fight addiction and desperation, yet he had so painfully obviously failed, and somehow, that disgusted the Okama even more. Willpower was something the individual controlled. It was the only real thing a man could honestly say he had full power over; himself. His will to survive, his wish to strive for... anything! Everything! And here, stood with a lecherous grin upon his face, his lip curled open to reveal yellowing, broken teeth, was a man so utterly broken and damned that the very idea that this man wanted to hurt his Captain made the Okama utterly furious, even if it was merely an idea and a complete impossibility.

But... wait. Was that what had set Morrigan off? Surely not...? Yonyon turned his attention to the young Captain, wondering. Had Morrigan seen all of that before he had? Were that even possible? If so, he had once again managed to surprise the Okama. There was a certain light in the Captain's eyes that suggested he had seen everything the Okama had, yet strangely enough, his angry gaze wasn't judgemental. He was completely, totally opposite to the Okama in that respect; where Yonyon detested Futtleshuckle's very existence, based purely on how pathetic the man had let his life become, Morrigan's expression clearly revealed he didn't give a damn either way. He was without bias, or judgement, and his eyes... his eyes betrayed knowledge and experience beyond his years, a strange wisdom that left him completely lacking in the ability to look and form an opinion based entirely and solely on the lifestyle choices of another. Total neutrality. In a world where pirates and Marines reigned... such honest purity was a disease that was easily cured through hardship and suffering. How such a man became a pirate to start with was beyond Yonyon, yet somehow, in some, twisted, warped way, it completely made sense, and Yonyon found himself smiling, genuinely smiling, despite everything Futtleshuckle stood for. This was why the decision to follow Morrigan were so easy.

It was as this thought warmly crossed his mind that the bounty hunter made his first move. Drawing another, equally ill looked-after blade from his belt, he threw one directly at the man he so desperately sought to capture, his jaw dropping to an almost impossible degree as the weapon simply went through his target. The hole in Morrigan's shoulder didn't close up straight away, though. Despite the young Captain's anger, it appeared as though he were still in a playful mood. Yonyon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, not knowing what that meant, and certainly not knowing what was in store for the bounty hunter. No, as Futtleshuckle stared stupidly at the 'wound' he had created, said 'wound' closed up slowly, leaking smoke as it did so.

''L-l-logia!'' Futtleshuckle gasped, stumbling backwards, the word a curse upon his breath. The backs of his legs hit the side of the bed and he fell backwards onto the sheets, scrambling to get away from his target. Morrigan laughed, the sound rich, joyous... and infinitely ominous.

Morrigan approached him, slowly, as though he were stalking. There were something about the way he moved to suggest his mood had turned sadistic, yet Yonyon had never seen that particular mood before. The Okama shook his head slightly; Morrigan was just as whimsical as the wind, and just as prone to change. What would he do...? The Okama found himself not wanting an answer.

''What's wrong, sir Futtleshuckle? Do I... scare you...?'' Morrigan taunted, coming to a stop only when his knees touched the side of the bed. The bounty hunter's skin turned an even paler, sicklier colour when he was terrified, it seemed. He gawped soundlessly; nowhere on the bounty did it even suggest that the target had eaten a Devil Fruit, nor did the bounty itself suggest that the man being advertised were so utterly dangerous. How had such a pirate only accumulated a bounty of 300,000 Beli? It didn't make any sense! Had he known what he were dealing with, he would have never gone after the pirate, much less stay at the same hotel!

''You seem to want to communicate something, but are unable.'' Morrigan mocked, fingers dancing over the handles of his swords. ''Would a few cuts loosen your tongue, I wonder...''

This was apparently too much for the bounty hunter, yet it were enough to make the man move. Scrambling harder against the sheets, he suddenly fell over the other side, landing hard on his back yet not seeming to notice. With an exaggerated step forwards, Morrigan stepped up onto the bed and drew the first of his swords; Leviathan. ''Apparently not, though it did make you move. I wonder what else I can do to make you move...''

''Captain...'' Yonyon said, quietly. Morrigan stretched for a moment, savouring the uncertainly in his First Mate's voice.

''Yes...?'' he responded, nor bothering to look at the man sat somewhere to his left. Instead, he kept his unblinking stare fixed upon Futtleshuckle below, as though that alone would stop the man from fleeing. Apparently, he was right. The bounty hunter froze to the spot as he reached for his dagger that had skidded some distance away as he fell. Morrigan giggled inappropriately; it was like he had just caught a child with his hand in the cookie jar.

''Don't you think we've made enough mess here? If we continue, the Marines may show up... and I think we're both in agreement that the Alpha can't outrun anybody in it's current condition.'' the Okama said, more confidently this time. Morrigan broke his stare and glanced around the room, raising an eyebrow. So far, they had utterly ruined the bathroom, and if they continued, the main room would be wrecked too.

''You know... You may be right...'' Morrigan trailed off, sheathing his sword. Yonyon didn't know whether to be more amazed at the fact that his Captain had actually listened, or that Futtleshuckle made a grab for his dagger the moment Morrigan had sheathed his weapon, as though his Devil Fruit was no longer a threat. Without wasting a moment, the bounty hunter dragged himself to his knees and lunged forwards. Slashing an arc at Morrigan's ankles, he gawped once again as the bladed edge of his weapon passed straight through flesh, as though he had stupidly expected something else to happen. Morrigan cocked his head to the side. ''But he still wants to play, mom! Pretty pretty pretty please with sugar and a cherry on top..?''

''...Fine.'' Yonyon replied, refusing to acknowledge the childish tone. ''Don't make too much mess though, he need to be able to get out of here in one piece...'' Morrigan sniggered. ''What...?'' the Okama said, frowning.

''Oh, nothing... you know, I bet One Piece doesn't even exist. I bet ol' Roger set everybody out to find it simply with the goal of making pirates constantly struggle to get out of bad situations in one piece. That's the joke...''

''Somehow, I don't think pranking was on the man's mind in his final moments...''

Despite his chastising words, Yonyon's tone was humorous, which in turn made Morrigan grin widely. Seeing another opportunity to strike, Futtleshuckle made another lunge, this time aiming to plant his blade squarely into Morrigan's foot. It was just as ineffective as before; Futtleshuckle made a broken whine of despair and began to stab into the Captain's legs over and over, the futility of his attacks furthering his desperation.

''Will you stop that!?'' Morrigan shouted, flipping straight over the bounty hunter's head in one fluid motion. As he landed, catlike, he turned and removed Cypher, complete with sheath, from his belt and smacked the man solidly in the face with the end of it. The blow was far stronger than it looked; Futtleshuckle instantly found himself on the other side of the bed, multicoloured stars dancing and exploding before his squinted eyes. Before he could recover, another blow struck him in the same place, this time delivered with the pommel of the blade, and he felt his back collide with the room door, his ears ringing loudly, before another blow sent him straight through it. His last thought as his back skidded across the gravel of the complex courtyard was that the last attack he had suffered had come from the underside of Morrigan's boot, and not the sheath of the sword he wielded. He stared blankly up at the sky above, disoriented. Surrounded by shards of splintered wood, his knife several meters away and definitely out of range, Futtleshuckle almost gave in to the oblivion that was unconsciousness. Almost. As he fought the blurred blackness that crept into the edges of his vision, he glanced to his blade, so impossibly far away. The edge was stained red with blood that certainly wasn't his, and he found himself grinning around a mouthful of broken teeth. Somehow, one of his attacks had cut the pirate. Perhaps his pray wasn't so far out of his league as he thought...

Inside the room, Morrigan sighed as Yonyon dabbed delicately at the thin slice upon his lower leg. It was barely more than a paper cut, yet it signalled to the young Captain that he still had a long, long way to go in terms of mastering his smoke. Yonyon scowled at him, eyeing the remnants of the door that still hung pathetically, clinging to the hinges. He tied a bandage around his Captain's calf, pulling the material a little tighter than was necessary. Morrigan winced in pain, yet the grin never left his face. ''What...?''

''You know damned well what. I just said, it would be fucking stupid to damage the room any more than it has been already, and you just took out the door! Are you wanting Jaxxon to find us so easily!?'' Yonyon exploded, slapping the wound with his palm.

''Ow, bitch! I just sent that sorry fuck though the door for cutting me, and here you are slapping the damned thing over and over! I should send you through a wall!'' Morrigan hissed, badly blocking the strikes with his hands as he spoke. ''You said I could continue, ma', you said I could!''

''And now I'm telling you to pay off that bitch behind the counter so she doesn't call the Marines!'' Yonyon said, completely ignoring the threat. He slapped the wound one final time, for good measure, than rose to his feet. ''We need to get out of here. I don't even think we have time to get supplies now, not with your dickery!''

''You just spent the last few minutes trying to slap the damned thing and you're telling me to leave it be!?'' the young Captain whined, testing his weight against it. ''Fuck it, let's get out of here, I tire of this place and I'm hungry...''

''You should have thought about your stomach the moment before you sent that poor idiot flying out of the room.'' Yonyon retorted, picking up his bag from where he had thrown it in a panic earlier.

''Speaking of which... I didn't hit him that hard. He's being awfully quiet...''

How many steps did it take to get from the entrance of the gambling house to the motel? It was an interesting question, and a detail that Ragnarok could have savored in his mind. Sadly, he only thought of his particular aspect when he was half way from his destination, making the entire point moot and defunct. Clopis strode along side his captain, right hand perched dutifully on his hip, his left hand swaying to and fro carelessly. The dead pirate strode with long, stamping strides, the dust flung up from his boots and his many blades leaving a trail large enough for the both of them. His eyes were dead set on the little motel, his left hand clenching and releasing with anticipation. Aside from the island setting, the two could almost be mistaken for a couple of Desperadoes heading into town after many weeks in the desert gloom. Pirates are pirates though, and while Desperadoes were treated with a sort of romanticism, pirates were often feared.

What would he look like now after all these years? Would he still have that afraid look in his eye that he had had all those nights before? Would fifteen years of running from fate and hearing of the unfortunate happenings to his companion have changed him at all? What sort of man would he be so far down the line? These and other such questions buzzed through Ragnarok's head as they made their way closer and closer to the man. They were not unlike a hive of angry hornets that had been made all the more enraged by having their nest set a blaze. Clopis, inversely, had virtually nothing on his mind. He mostly wondered as to what would be left of the man once his captain was finished with him. Chunks of flesh? Sections of body? Bones? Nothing? It was difficult to predict just how the dead captain would kill a man. He didn't let it bother him all that much though. He instead thought about his gypsy brothers and wondered if they had been able to carry out what orders he had given them in the short amount of time that had passed between him saying the words and his rendezvous with his captain. He was confident that they had, but still... even the best plans weren't air proof. The variable in this one was their target, Futtleschuckle. They had no idea as to just how strong an opponent this was and therefore no idea if they were properly prepared. Still, Clopis couldn't help but smile. Gypsies were a family, each and everyone of them. Family didn't end at blood, and he had had doubts about his brothers' and sisters' prowess before, only to be proven wrong. He was confident that this time around would be no different.

Though, he hadn't shared his plans with his captain. That too was another variable. How would he react to such a thing happening? There was no time to explain it fully, but the gypsy felt it necessary to at least let his captain in on the “safe word” he had chosen. “Captain, if I might have a moment of your time to tell you of something important...?” the gay man inquired, turning his head to look at his captain as he asked. Ragnarok didn't answer, just stared straight ahead. Clopis took that as a sign to continue and did. “Captain, should things get out of hand for any reason what so ever, you should know that the crew is positioned to help at your command. All you need to say is 'drop it' and they'll know what to do. Okay?” There was no sass or playfulness in his voice as there usually was. Clopis was all business for once, knowing full well the gravity of his captain's mood and mindset. He gave no sign that he had even heard what his first mate had said, but he knew that he had. That was enough for now. Clopis turned his head and looked at the ever closing distance of the motel.

Their march came to a sudden and unexpected stop though when out from the motel and into the court yard came an individual, crashing down onto the stones like a sack of potatoes. Ragnarok froze. Clopis stared, mouth open slightly and unblinking. Ragnarok narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look of who it was that had came flying out the motel. He ground his teeth together, trying to see if this was who he had been seeking for so many years now. The one who got away, the one who lived, but no more. Clopis looked from his captain to the man lying down respectively, at a loss for what to do. He turned full on to his captain and wondered what would happen next. Would this stranger die because he was the intended target, or die because he wasn't if he was to die at all? “Captain...?” he asked gingerly. His captain didn't speak, he merely watched with concentrated eyes.

The individual who had come crashing out of the motel lay motionless for a while, not stirring for one reason or another. The two pirates mimicked his stillness. When at last the man moved, at first just stirring on the spot and then sitting up, the tension in Clopis eased out slightly. Ragnarok continued to stay still as stone, watching, waiting. When the man stood up, Clopis straightened up and stood at attention, waiting for a chance to do something if anything needed to be done. His captain continued to be as stoic as rock. Slowly, the man in shabby clothing shuffled over to what looked like a small blade on the ground. The dead pirate's eyes followed his movement and darted forth to the dagger on the ground. His eyes widened, his left nostril twitched with broken tension and his whole body relaxed visibly as if a wave had washed over him. “There he is,” he said quietly, his voice sailing out with his breath in a single gust. His paralysis was broken, he saw now who it was he was hunting. Death was all but upon him.

Ragnarok strode towards his man, leaving Clopis to stand watching him as he left. There he was, after all this time it would be Futtleschuckles' turn to be reaped as he had done so many others. He knew. This was his man, he could tell by his knife. That knife had been on Futtleschuckles' belt the night that Shipwreck had died. That knife had stuck in the pirates' memory outside of every other feature. Futtleschuckle could be ninety years old, crippled, and masked but that blade would always be a tell to Ragnarok. So long as that blade existed, he would always be able to know the man for who he was. His blood was trembling in his veins, trembling at the idea that this was it. After all these years, Shipwreck would be avenged. It was too much, far too much... and never enough. This moment, this very second of Ragnarok the Destroyer's life, would surely be the sweetest and the most bitter. For he would never be here again, he would never have this satisfaction of ending the one man he had hunted for so long. His only regret would be that he could not make this ridiculous man, Futtleschuckle, tremble for all eternity at his wrath. He had loved Shipwreck, and for as petty a reason as money a good man had died. There would be no holy fire greater than his on this day.

He dropped his chain. He did not need it. Only one blade would do, the one at his hip.

Clopis' blood ran cold.

Futtleschuckle stood trembling, a crooked smile on his face and rotting teeth showing proud of their addiction. He was excited, why shouldn't he be? He cut the man, he cut the 300,000 berry man. Soon that cash would be his, and what could he spend it on? Oh, the things he could do with 300,000 berries. He intended to do it all, every last bit of it. There would be no sensation he would not feel, not for 300,000 berries. All he had to do was bring the head of Morrigan Rassallion to the marines', quick and simple, the job would be done and he would be rich enough for a life time of rushes. Deep breathes he told himself, take it slow, take your time. There's no rush, so long as he doesn't kill you. Be careful, you can do it. Just little cuts, that's all it took. Small little itty bitty -

“I've been looking for you for a long, time, Sir.”

Darkness. A shadow so great that none can escape it. So dark that Sir Futtleschuckle couldn't see but the dark that now surrounded him. His blood stopped, his heart pumped air that was cold as ice. His bones shook with sudden fear as his eyes widened and the hair on every inch of his body stood on edge. A feeling of electricity ran through his entire being, gyrating his flesh in ways that rightly upset a man. Was it this cold a few moments before? Were the goosebumps always there or had they slowly etched their way up his back and into his flesh like lice? What was this silence? He couldn't even hear himself breath, couldn't even hear his heart beating. He felt cold. He felt suddenly helpless. He felt like a man standing in the face of all of the gods and devils and begging to turn away from the gaze only to be met with silence. He felt like death.

Futtleschuckle was shaking violently now. His tremors were only matched by the deep heaving breaths that he took in with every second that passed, growing more and more frequent with each pump of blood. The blade in his hand fell and came to a clattering shriek on the ground, the only sound in such deep and foreboding silence. He could feel himself talking but he didn't know what he was saying, couldn't hear himself. “Don't make me turn around... please, I'll do anything, anything if you just don't make me turn around,” he said over and over and over, trying to convince the entity behind him that he was no worth the trouble. And yet, of his own accord, he could feel himself turning. There was no divine power, no gravity, no calling from above that made him do it. He simply did, and he saw the face of the darkness that had passed over him and he trembled to his very soul. Standing over him, looming like the shadow of death itself, was the one man – the one thing in all of creation he had tried to avoid for fifteen years, staying in the opposite sea that he was rumored to be in at all times, as far away as possible. Now, he stood before the man, the thing that had hunted him down for the better part of two decades, and he could do nothing to stop the waves of nausea that passed over him.

“It's been a long time, you know,” Ragnarok said, his form blotted out by the sun that he over took in Futtleschuckle's eyes. “I was expecting a proper greeting of sorts, a sort of 'Hello, how have you been? How's life?' sort of deal... but no, I get this profound shock from you. I must say, it's rather disappointing.” Futtleschuckle fell to his knees. What else could he do in the face of the man who had earned such a reputation by carving through the lives and each and every friend of a friend that had known his long since deceased associate... no, not carved – tore, like a fat kid in a candy bag. Ragnarok's face was black, black as night and the deepest pit as he said, “Oh, don't do that. You're embarrassing yourself, the Great Futtleschuckle, the man who got away...” the dead pirate leaned forward and the darkness grew. His prey quaked a flinch and fell onto his rear, staring up into the face of the one who would surely end his life. “Almost.” He whispered it. It was all that need be said.

He broke, Futtleschuckles mind became completely and totally overcome with fear. He snapped, all reason gone. He gave into base instincts, and the will to survive was most prevalent. Reaching down, he picked up his blade and with a horrible, animal yell and thrust it forward into the chest of his adversary, piercing flesh as though it were tissue paper. In spite of his fear, he was able to laugh. He was laughing out of pure relief – forget Morrigan Rassallion, the 300,000 berry man, he had just stabbed Ragnarok the Destroyer! Imagine the rewards he could get for such a man, if not the marines then the pirates! All rational sense was gone, there was only the need to pull out and thrust in with his blade, over and over with animal yells as his face and the ground around him were spattered with blood until at last his arm gave way to fatigue and his breath came in short, sputtering rasps, his mouth and throat clogged with blood. All the while, Ragnarok the Destroyer did not move from his position. He made no sound beyond what he could not control of his body, and simply, waited.

“I'm disappointed in you, Futtleschuckle,” he said. “Very, disappointed.” The man's blood froze in his veins, instant liquid nitrogen sold at 500 berries a gallon. He looked up and saw the man he had killed rising up, standing tall with eyes as red as the blood that had just been spilled piercing into his gaunt face. It wasn't possible, how was this man still alive? How could anyone still be alive after that? There had been so much blood! So many wounds! How was he still standing? The man slumped forward but his neck stayed craned upward, as unable to be pulled away from those eyes as a magnet to it's polar half. Ragnarok looked down at his chest where the dagger handle still stuck out and glared, taking a hold of it and pulling it out of his chest slowly, for emphasis. With a flick of his wrist it was out of his hand and into Futtleschuckle's. It took a few moments for him to realize the pain in his hand was real. When he did, he screamed. They always screamed.

Ragnarok had no sympathy though. Now was nowhere near the time for sympathy. He reached forward with his foot and stepped on the pommel of the knife, making the blade dig in deeper into the man's flesh. He screamed, oh how he screamed. It was more fear than pain, fear that this was only the beginning. He was right, if Ragnarok had his way this would only be the beginning. He wanted to have fun with this, it would be the last time after all. “You know, I'm a little but surprised at you Futtleschuckle. For a man like you, a man who got away from me of all people... well, I would expect you to be in better shape. Yet here you are... you're hardly a man at all. You're more like an insect really, a parasite...” Ragnarok smiled, a cruel, vicious smile that in itself spoke volumes about how long this would take. “Doesn't matter though. They all end up in the same place eventually – with me.” The dead pirate leaned forward, so close that the blood on Futtleschuckle's face that had belonged to him connected to the molecules on his own face and whispered, “I'm Death for you... and I will bleed you before I'm finished. I'll salt your flesh, I'll burn your wounds, I'll pump battery acid into your arteries and keep you alive long enough so that you can see the anguish on your face in a mirror. Now, deny me.”

Taking his foot away from the dagger, Ragnarok took three steps back and sat down on the ground, listening and watching the soon to be dead human's breath ooze through his throat. “What!?” He asked, shouted in disbelief. Ragnarok smiled. He loved this, every second of it he cherished – just as he had cherished it with all of the others. “You've got five stages to go, and I imagine you're denying my existence to yourself now... but I want to hear it. Deny me,” Ragnarok ordered, his tone solid and menacing. Fucttleschuckle snarled and took a hold of the handle of the blade, trying to pull it out of his hand. “Fuck you! I'll kill you, you son of a bitch! I'll kill you!”

Ragnarok closed his eyes and smiled, letting out a breath in a silky smooth wave. “That's it... that's stage one complete. Now...” Unsheathing his blade, Shipwreck's blade, he edged it slowly towards the injured human's throat until he fell back on his rear with a cry, staring at the point of the blade with all of the intensity that life can offer. “Give me anger..”

“Get that thing away from me, I'll tear you limb from fucking limb if you don't! Don't screw with me, I'll rip your heart from your still beating chest, I swear it!” The man roared, tugging at his only restraint and letting out a curled cry of fury when more pain erupted and shot through his veins.

Another sigh. He opened his eyes, glared at his adversary and moved his blade. There suddenly came the smell of burning fat and flesh as Futtleschuckles' right cheek caught on fire. He screamed and fell back, writhing on the ground and slapping at his face to put out the flames. Ragnarok held the blade out to his side, the bit of blood that was actually on the blade dripping on the ground. His right hand was gripping his left wrist and his left hand was in a death lock on the handle of Shipwreck's sword. Hiryuu Kaen, he always did like that technique. “What you're feeling the sensation of being cut and burned at the same time. I'd suggest you get used to it, because it's going to happen a lot,” Ragnarok growled, standing up and looming over the bounty hunter, the tip of the blade digging into his throat. “Bargain.”

“Please... please, I'll do anything... just let me live for the love of the gods, let me live!” Tears flowed down his face, his voice was quaky and wounded. Ragnarok relished it. He was death's avatar, undying, unbiased as to who died, unavoidable as the coming storm. This was like pay-per-view to him. “Depression.” He uttered, casting a spell of doom and despair into the very heart of the man who was no longer able to speak but instead in shambled, muttering to himself through his tears, wailing in gibberish. Ragnarok took in a deep breath and raised his blade, blood still freely flowing from his chest and onto his victim of choice. “Acceptance,” he said, his sword rising higher and higher, a guillotine turned anorexic.

It was then that Clopis came, like the breath of the gods, and his hand lightly touched Ragnarok's shoulder. His captain looked over at him, and he saw pity in his eyes – pity for the man below their feet... or perhaps pity for his captain. The gypsy shook his head and said quietly, no sass available, “Not like this... not here. Bring him to the ship, put him on trial. Sentence him then and there to die, not here in the dirt on some shit island. You've waited a long time for this, I know, but do it properly. If not for yourself, do it for the man you're avenging... I'll head back to the ship.”